


matthew 10:34

by madanach



Series: and i confer to you a kingdom [1]
Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Civil War, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:45:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/pseuds/madanach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Mohan, Mohan is back,</i> and the girl says it to her brother, who tells his mother, whose gutshot-weak husband stumbles regardless out of bed to hear the news. By the time he reaches the truck others are filtering out from the warmth of their houses, and the girl tells a friend who tells others, who tell their sisters and mothers and husbands and fathers to tell Ishwari.</p>
            </blockquote>





	matthew 10:34

The whispers filter through the town before they make it to her. First the roar of a truck skidding on winter-wet dirt, then a soldier’s sharp yell to the first child who peeks around their door.

 _Mohan, Mohan is back_ , and the girl says it to her brother, who tells his mother, whose gutshot-weak husband stumbles regardless out of bed to hear the news. By the time he reaches the truck others are filtering out from the warmth of their houses, and the girl tells a friend who tells others, who tell their sisters and mothers and husbands and fathers to tell Ishwari.

The pregnancy doesn’t show yet, but it does wear down her bones; she had excused herself from a fruitless meeting a quarter of an hour earlier and sits now at Mohan’s desk, poring over his scrawl and disorderly copies of copies of plans instead of taking the rest that she intended, still looking for whatever hint to his absence she missed. The satisfaction of having no one to censor her reading died quickly, and in the mere week-and-a-half of quiet from the palace she has made her way through almost all of his files, laying them in careful piles by date at the head of the table whether they are in languages she reads or not. So far, she’s found nothing aside from what she knew before.

They should have heard from him by now. The thought keeps her appetite away far beyond the mornings she’s used to, though she’s careful not to show it. The palace and fortress would put up a fight, he warned her and his lieutenant who stayed behind, and they must not fret if it took them days beyond the first assault to secure their footing.

They waited those days, then more, and her worrying mind puts words to the thought no one else in the village wants to name: did they make it through? Have Min’s mercenaries and foreign-born prince been enough?

Still, the thought of a loss doesn’t settle right in her stomach. The Nationalists are brash and proud, quick to show their power. If they had the head of Mohan or Pagan or the prince, surely they would have said by now. _Someone_ would have said.

Which leaves them — where, exactly? Ishwari frowns down at the hurried Nepali translation scratched into the margins of a letter, places it on a pile at her right, resigned. The attack didn’t go as planned, that much is clear, but from Shanath, with all scouts in the north gone silent, the fog of distance makes sure that’s all she or anyone knows.

She doesn’t answer the door at the first knock, but when the second comes — louder, sharper — she sighs dramatically, though no one is there to hear, and wraps her hooded shawl around her shoulders before descending carefully down the steep stairs.

“Please, all I asked for was an hour of peace,” and then the expression on her visitor’s face when she opens the door stops her words entirely.

“Ram,” she says — twin to his brother Bharat, one of the earliest casualties of the war and Mohan’s dearest friend before his death and Ram’s appointment as lieutenant — “What’s happened?”

Ram shakes his head. “It’s Mohan,” he says, eyes wide, seemingly at a loss. “They say he’s crossing the river with his men.”

“Who says?” Ishwari demands, stepping forward. A quick loop of her cloak to keep it in place and a tug on the stubborn door until it stays shut, and then she’s matching her stride with that of Ram, already pushing his way back toward the road with hurried, nervous steps. “Did you see him with your own eyes?”

“No,” Ram says. “No, but our scouts by the borders of Naccarapur did, I think. Ask the one who came back yourself. There’s so much commotion, I couldn’t straighten out a thing.”

“You should have sent someone else to get me,” Ishwari says as they turn the corner, the rustling mob around the truck now in view. “You’re in charge of Shanath.”

“And you’re in charge of the army,” Ram says. “And the rest of it. I’ll keep them quiet and leave you to it.”

She nods, hiding her exasperation. Ram’s a good man, but he’s six years her senior, almost Mohan’s age; Tarun Matara or not, he should be aware of his duties in the city as well as the battlefield by now.

Ram raises his voice and calls for quiet in English, Nepali and Hindi: the crowd turns to him, catches sight of Ishwari in her rumpled clothes, and goes silent. She doesn’t have to ask for them to move away and form a path, and with a grateful nod, she slips between the murmuring masses of people and approaches the lone soldier, still leaning on the open door of his truck.

“Tarun Matara,” he says, blinking, and then bows. Ishwari shakes her head, gestures at him to stand straight.

“Ishwari, right now,” she says, as frankly as she can. “I need you to tell me everything you saw. In private, if you feel that’s necessary, but soon." 

The soldier shrugs his shoulders. “There’s not much to say. Our scout at the bridge caught glimpses of their party coming through the gorge, but we didn’t know it was them until they flagged Rani down. They told me to come tell you. They’re walking, but I don’t think they’re many. They should be here by nightfall.”

“Not many?” Ishwari’s mouth goes dry. “Mohan, and who else?”

The soldier shakes his head apologetically. “I’m not sure. They looked Kyrati.”

Ishwari begins another question, then stops herself. “Alright. Come, tell us the full story in council.” She turns, then, raises her voice to address the crowds. “The rest of you, anyone who is able, prepare for their arrival. Assume some are wounded and all are hungry. Don’t dip too far into the winter stores, but if it’s needed, do so.”

The men and women at the edge of the group nod, somehow managing smiles, then pass the message on to the others behind them. It takes only the better part of a minute before the crowd disperses, rumbling with noise. Ishwari motions at the soldier to follow her, but holds up her hand to Ram: stay. Do your job.

“Where are we going?” the soldier asks as they wind their way through the streets, ducking around the cooking fires that are already being made in the largest gaps between buildings. She can tell that he doesn’t know how to address her, hears the cut-off consonant of _Tarun_ at the end of his sentence before he catches himself.

“Council,” Ishwari says. “Someplace quiet, preferably.”

The soldier nods, follows her all the way to her door before realizing where he is and standing awkwardly in the doorframe, despite the fact that she has wrenched the door unceremoniously open and is holding it for him, obviously waiting.

“Come in,” she says, trying for patience and hitting the opposite. “Now is not the time for shyness.”

The soldier nods stiffly, again, and enters. He has to duck his head in the entryway like Mohan, though he looks much younger. Ishwari’s age, most likely, or less. In peacetime, he’d be married soon.

“Sit down,” Ishwari says. “I’m just going to get a pen.”

By the time she makes it upstairs and back, he has given in to his tired legs and is perched tentatively on a chair like he’s afraid it will disappear underneath him. Ishwari resists the urge to roll her eyes and pulls up another across from him, leaning an unfolded envelope and cracking pen across her lap.

“You told me what you saw,” she states. He nods. “Specifics, then. How many men? Uniforms? Any you recognized? Just give me what you would give any officer.”

“They’ll be here soon,” the soldier mumbles, but catches her expression and clears his throat. “Um. Mohan was there. I didn’t see him but others did, multiple others, and there was definitely a leading figure. Royalist uniforms, the ones we wear in firefights. Utility uniforms." 

“How many were Min’s men? You know their crests.” The Chinese, though they’ve taken to Royalist clothing, prefer traditional epaulettes over Kyrati sashes and are easy to spot from a distance because of the bright red lining. A baffling luxury that neither Ishwari nor Mohan understood, but Pagan enjoyed immensely.

The soldier shakes his head, and Ishwari has the sudden urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, say, _use your words_. As if he knew her thoughts, the soldier swallows and adds, “None that I could see.”

Ishwari starts. That is a surprise. Pagan has been with them less than a year, but his mercenaries are hard to kill and he’s even harder. There would have been no road to the palace otherwise. Without him…

She doesn’t want to think where they are without him. Back to square one, licking their wounds.

Still — she rights herself, clears her throat — Mohan is alive. They have that, at least, and whatever happened with Pagan and his men, they’ll be able to confront it from a unified position. They’ve rescued hostages before, and if he’s dead, not much can be done about it now. Her stomach churns thinking of it. For all his eccentricities, his brash confidence that made him seem nearly a boy, she’d actually liked the man. He was good company, made her laugh, and was a strategist with such quick intuition that Mohan returned from their first tactical meeting buzzing with praise. Hard to replace, certainly, and a good friend besides.

The heir is less optional. “And the prince?”

The soldier shakes his head miserably. “No sign of him.”

Ishwari’s fingers tighten unconsciously around the pen. There’s always the possibility that the prince has forsaken the royal makeup he wore even in uniform, a contribution of Ishwari’s; his colorful stitching and scarves, however, modeled off Pagan and his peacocking, he wouldn’t be caught dead without. He was getting old, full of stubbornness and pride, and awaited his throne with eager anticipation. Ishwari can’t say she likes him, far from it, but without an heir, their revolution has no cause or direction. It took long enough to find _this_ one.

“Well,” she says quietly, looks down at her jotted notes, the writing she learned so carefully when she was young. “I thank you for your news. Mohan will add his piece, when he comes." 

The soldier nods stiffly. “Of course, my lady.” Ishwari raises her head. 

“None of that, now,” she says. “Go on. Rest if you need it, and then there’s always work to do. You’ve done a good job today.”

The soldier nods again and moves awkwardly to stand, then changes his mind halfway through the motion and stays, sitting precariously on the edge of his seat, watching Ishwari with large eyes. She could laugh, if she wasn’t so tired of this behavior around her.

“You are excused,” she says. “If the Goddess requires any more formality, she’ll say.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the soldier says as he stands up. “Or.”

Ishwari cracks a smile despite the slow terror that is beginning to creep up through her veins, making them buzz and crackle as she flexes a hand restlessly. “I’m sorry. My lady is fine,” she says, and nods towards the door. “I’m sure we’ll find a proper female form of sir one day.”

“I hope so, my lady,” the soldier says, relieved. “Banashur bless you.”

“You as well,” Ishwari says, and then he disappears out the door, into the last remnants of low-hanging fog in the chill winter air. He is gone, and then she lets the paper slip out of her hands and fall to the floor with a hiss.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she says, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. “Gods. Banashur, Kyra. _Fuck_.”

There’s no way she can twist this into being good. Pagan wouldn’t have stayed at the palace without Mohan, and Mohan wouldn’t have come back without the prince. The Nationalists wouldn’t have any important dead without broadcasting it to the whole of Kyrat and they haven’t heard a word. Something went very, very wrong.

There must be something she’s missed: some other element, some outside influence that spun them for a loop, but she’s been looking and looking and _looking_ for the days that Mohan’s been gone and there’s nothing to see. Nothing there. No missing link, no third party. Just her, Mohan, Pagan, and the dead of their war.

Kyra save them all.

Ishwari gives herself a minute to control her breath and racing heart. When she can stand she makes her uneasy way back up the stairs and faces the desk again, staring in distaste at the paperwork she’s combed over a hundred times by now. She should look again. There’s something there, waiting for her to find it.

She can’t make herself. Instead, she crosses to their old clothes-chest, pulls out a warmer jacket and a pair of gloves, then readies herself to enter the chattering fray of preparations outside her door. It’s clumsy trying to button the coat with the yakskin gloves already on, but they wouldn’t slip together easily anyway. It was given to her when she was young, just married, and now stretches tight around her breasts and swollen stomach. A month more, she won’t be able to wear it at all. 

Mohan will be back soon. She whispers it under her breath like prayer; the war is no longer up to her. Mohan will be back soon, bringing news, and they will know what has happened. No more wondering.

Ishwari smears a light dusting of kohl over her eyes, quickly repaints the by-now-smeared holy mark on her forehead, and leaves the empty warmth of the house before she can think better of it.

The sun’s already sinking over Rochan when she makes her way past the cooking fires, children rushing past her with plates of food for stew and men carrying fresh sheets to their makeshift hospital. The city is wary, as is expected, but she can feel relief in the air as well. She may be their spiritual leader, but in wartime they all look to Mohan and his determination, his certainty and steadfastness. Their people wither without him.

She sighs and casts a longing look at the curve of the river, then turns around, sets her shoulders, and heads into the crowd.

 

As it turns out, it’s less than an hour before they return: tired and hungry, reeking of copper and crackling with dried blood.

“They’re here!” a boy yells at the border of the town, and word spreads through the people like wildfire. By the time his men have made it over the crest of the hill — a quarter of the soldiers he brought with him, an eighth, less — Shanath is lining the streets, watching and waiting. A few children dash between their father’s legs, uncles, older brothers, and hang on in desperation. More make it through the throng and come out without anyone to cling to. 

Mohan stands at the forefront in the rags of his uniform, covered in ash and dirt and dull red rust, and the expression on his face makes Ishwari step back without thinking when she sees.

“Gods,” she breathes, still ten or fifteen paces away. The crowd parts for her.

“Ishwari,” Mohan says, his voice unbelievably rough, and then he crosses the distance.

She had faith, she did. She listened when he said it would take time, she looked stubbornly for the cracks in the framework that led to his silence, but she realizes the moment he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her neck that what she was waiting for was word that he wasn’t coming home. That crushing inevitability of war, the worst case scenario that she’d been holding her breath for since ’85, when she first realized that one day he would die and she would be alone. 

Not today. Not today, she thinks, and cards her fingers through his tangled hair, holds him as he breathes in shakily. Mohan is a bear of a man and a fearsome optimist, but his hands tremble on her waist.

“We’re in public,” she whispers quietly. “My love, lift your chin and then we can go home.” 

“Ishwari,” Mohan says again. “Ishwari.”

“Give me a moment,” Ishwari says, and separates herself carefully from Mohan’s grasp; when she’s out of his hands he runs a hand through his hair helplessly and blinks up at the sky. She lays a reassuring palm on his collarbone, then steps past him, addresses his men.

“We have food and water ready,” she says, voice reaching even the soldiers at the back easily. “The hospital is waiting if anyone needs medical attention. Please, take what you need, —“

“— You’ve come a long way,” Mohan finishes, and Ishwari feels his hand on her back. Steady, now. “I know some of you are hurt, don’t try to play it off. We’ve made it. Get help if you need it.”

A soldier that Ishwari vaguely recognizes nods tightly. “Sir?”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Mohan says. “All of you. Figure out what needs to be done. For now, rest.”

“Yes, sir,” the man in the front says and then they disperse quietly, searching for family or food. Mohan’s fingers clench on her back. Ishwari allows herself to turn around and press his nose into his chest briefly, look up and attempt a smile.

“Home,” Mohan says. He doesn’t smile back. She doesn’t know if he can.

Instead, she takes him by the hand and leads him home. He ducks instinctively under the doorframe but stands there, unmoving, until she turns back and closes the door behind him. A moment of silence, and then —

“That fucking snake.”

“What happened?” Ishwari asks, the rush of excitement and apprehension in her veins slipping into her voice. She hopes Mohan doesn’t notice; she must be the calm one, if the way his gun hand bounces restlessly is any indication.

“That fucking _snake_ ,” Mohan says and crosses to their table in two long strides, places his hands flat on the boards and _shakes_ , all the way down his spine, with fear or confusion or rage.

“What happened,” Ishwari says again, breathlessly. “Mohan, please just say.” She feels like she should reach out to comfort him but doesn’t trust it just yet. Let him hit whatever he must hit, first, get that anger out of his bones, and then she can go to him. He’s broken chairs and tables before. Never laid a hand on her, though.

“Traitor,” Mohan says. “Traitor, thief, liar, coward, fucking killer, we let him in our _home_. Shared our table and our hearth and he,” Mohan breathes in deep, can’t finish his sentence for the fury in his throat.

Ishwari’s heart sinks. She knows what she’ll hear before she hears it, but it still hits her like a stone when Mohan exhales in a rush, clenches his fists, and says, “It was Pagan, that Chinese dog.”

“He betrayed you,” Ishwari says. Mohan shakes his head, slowly at first, then fervently.

“I know what you’re thinking.” His voice is rough. “The Nationalist command is dead.”

Ishwari frowns. That explains the lack of word, but. “Tell me what happened at the fortress,” she says softly. “Mohan, I’ve been worried sick.”

Mohan lifts his head and, for the first time that night, attempts a smile. For a moment, she thinks he’ll kiss her, but instead he just shakes his head again and says, “We made it to the palace.”

Ishwari moves carefully to the other end of the table. “And?”

Mohan laughs, hollowly at first and then harshly, careening into racking coughs. Ishwari winces in sympathy. He’s injured, that much is clear, but knowing his pride he won’t sit down to be taken care of for days.

“And then he slit the prince’s throat,” Mohan says, and brings his fist down against the table so hard it cracks.

Ishwari has to step back to steady herself, put a pace between her and the bleeding edges of Mohan’s rage.

“He’s king,” Mohan says, shaking with it. “He sat on the sacred throne of Banashur as the prince bled out in front of him and his men killed our men before we knew a thing. Everyone who I didn’t bring back is dead.”

“You brought two hundred men,” Ishwari says, empty. He can’t have returned with more than forty.

“Sacrifices to the foreign whore,” Mohan says, bitterness dripping from his tongue with every word. “Kyra, I’ve been blind. I thought you _blessed_ him.”

“I didn’t see what you saw,” Ishwari says. She presses her eyes closed, then opens them, takes in the abject desperation in the line of Mohan’s shoulders. “She never spoke of him to me.”

Mohan shudders. “But she never warned you.” 

“She never warned me,” Ishwari confirms, feeling the night catch up with her. The weight in her stomach feels dragging, her legs unsteady, and the thought of Pagan laughing and smiling at the very table Mohan now leans on makes her sick.

 “Tell the Goddess I will kill him,” he says, so quietly Ishwari has to lean in to hear. “I will. I swear to Kyra, I will see him dead.”

“Mohan,” Ishwari begins, but he cuts her off.

“No,” Mohan says. “This is my mistake and I will correct it.”

“She hears you,” Ishwari says. “She always hears you, Mohan.”

He raises his head, holds her gaze.

“You’re already forgiven,” she says, and doesn’t have the heart to tell him that Kyra’s whispers are soft, almost indistinct. She uses Ishwari because she has no voice of her own.

Mohan nods stiffly. He stays where he is for a moment, and then crosses to their stairs, peeling off the rags of his shirt as he ascends them. There are mottled bruises across his back, the white lines of old scars and the harsh red of new ones. Tomorrow she’ll bully him into having them washed, clean white bandages soaked in alcohol and sambar horn, but for now she’ll let him rest.

As she moves quietly through the house to gather whatever stores of food they have left, thinking she’ll boil them for the morning, Mohan stands uncertainly at the head of the stairs.

“Ishwari,” he says, sleep already weighing down his eyelids. “Darling, it is good to see you again.”

She kisses him, for that. Within minutes, he is snoring.

 

Ishwari comes to bed late that night, only after the rest of the city is quiet in slumber. It takes her almost an hour to sleep, though her bones are weary, and in the morning she will wake with dark circles under her eyes, scoffing and waving away any who dare to fret.

For now, she dreams, and walks a road to a palace she’s never seen. The doors open for her, and Pagan sits on his stolen throne, the bloodless corpse of the prince at his feet, his shirt-front soaked crimson and his smile bright.

“Goddess!” he calls to her, arms wide in welcome. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

**Author's Note:**

> i am ishwari ghale trash and don't you ever forget it!! firstgen/civil war trio have become my children and i don't know how this happened
> 
> [tumblr](http://madanach.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/anahaedra)
> 
>  _I came not to bring peace, but a sword._ Matthew 10:34


End file.
